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STR.CRD UNREVIEW

by Tseliso Monaheng / 12.11.2014

The rain comes down in the afternoon on Saturday, just after I arrive. The first droplets hit as I sit on top of a knee-high concrete slab to collect my thoughts amidst the speakers’ boom. The muffled ‘doofs’ become ‘bangs’ as they excite the grand chamber below. The mid-range chatter of da kidz dressed in tumblr and pinterest-curated regalia become a mere distraction.

I’m sitting in the rain. Picking up stompies.

“Fucking hell, beware of the bombs dawg!” goes one of da kidz, which sparks my interest, but not enough for me to spot the face or check out the outfit.

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I run for shelter.

Sight becomes blurred motion, as I run past decorated stalls from one end of the underground parking lot to the other. A makeshift theatre marks the final frontier for style enthusiasts. A cozy-cool bar area slouches in the corner, inviting the fashion androids to reward themselves with a cuppa somethin’ somethin’.

STR.CRD was a series of moments.

strcrd14_mahala

It left me feeling like there was so much more I could’ve seen and done; like, if only I could have cloned myself and gone rolling with the skater cats, inherited a credit card and splashed some plastic cash on merch and attended one of the master classes run by the trend forecasters.

strcrd14_mahala

There were moments when I saw the cracks, but didn’t fall in. Those moments stayed behind long after Mashayabhuqe kaMamba had the basement mumbling ‘Shandarabaa Ekhelemendeh’ without the slightest clue of what it meant, and before izikhothane had drizzled their yellow rays onto willing Ultramel fanatics.

ultramel

I took pictures, had fun, and got to hear the standard ‘it’s not the same as last year’ mantra I’ve heard time and again at events like these.

But like Mike D says, it was a good day.

smoke
smile
feet
hair
chop
music
underground

*Images © Tseliso Monaheng

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